Splinters and Johnnie Walker
by AlexJanna
Summary: Ignorance is Bliss verse. John is woozy and in pain and a little delirious from exhaustion so it's obvious that he just hallucinated that. Right? Right!


**Title**: Splinters and Johnnie Walker  
><strong>Author<strong>: AlexJanna  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Supernatural  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Sam(13)/Dean(17)  
><strong>Series<strong>: Ignorance is Bliss Verse  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Pre-Series AU  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 1,796  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: wincest, established relationship, teen!chesters, pre-slash(pre-sex), denial!John  
><strong>Summary<strong>: John is woozy and in pain and a little delirious from exhaustion so it's obvious that he just hallucinated that. Right? Right?  
><strong>AN**: This is the first I wrote of a series of one-shots mostly from John's point of view of Sam and Dean's relationship, in its many and maybe not so varied forms.

It was a hard night, a hard hunt that's for sure. But John Winchester was satisfied. The _thing_ was dead and his boys were alive. What more could a father ask for? Other than the hole in his side stitched up and numbed all to hell, that is.

Hunting the thing had been rough. First it picked Dean up flinging him across the room of the gutted, run down hunting cabin they'd cornered it in. Then it picked John up shaking him like a British nanny. It was a miracle that Sam had managed to avoid its claws and vice like grip.

John was just getting his breath back and Sam was firing off silver bullet after ineffectual silver bullet while the thing dragged Dean across the splintering floor like a rag doll. Of course, John couldn't very well let that stand so he ended it. Now the thing was three walls and a floor of splattered guts and bone chips.

Good riddance.

"Ouch! Fuck boy! Careful."

"Sorry Dad." Sam murmured not really paying much attention to his father's pain as he stitched him up with the last remaining true medical sutures they had in their med supply. Any injuries after this would have to do with non-mint dental floss until they could find a drug store with a five finger -or cheaper- discount on suture.

Sam had been designated medic for a while now. Pretty much since his fine motor skills had developed enough for him to thread a needle faster than the eye could blink. He'd been sewing all three of them up ever since. And he was damned good at it.

John watched his youngest stitch, pull, stitch, pull with an uncanny ease while the sound of Dean unloading the truck helped drown out the white noise of pain in his head. It was oddly domestic.

The three of them just seemed to work and was he a bad father for being proud of that? Nah, he didn't think so.

"Alright." Sam's voice drew him back to the here and now. Man, he'd really hit his head something good, hadn't he? "I'm tying you off, Dad. Hey, Dean, hand me that peroxide, will you?"

John wrinkled his nose in displeasure, a motion Dean inherited from him. He probably looked like a sullen child, but who could blame him. Peroxide stung like a bitch on a freshly stitched wound.

Dean walked stiffly around the kitchen table in their rented apartment and slid the bottle toward his brother. His movements were measured and careful and John tried to remember if the boy had been hurt worse than he'd thought.

There didn't seem to be any blood and he wasn't favoring his ribs, so he figured he'd let his oldest deal on his own. He was seventeen after all; Dean knew when he was in over his head.

Obviously Sam didn't agree, because he flashed his brother a warning look before he turned his attention back on his father and doused his stitched up side with the burning liquid.

"Shit!" John hissed.

"You're done." Sam said, taping a thick gauze pad over the wound. "Me and Dean can get the rest. You go get some rest."

John quirked an amused look at him. "Since when do I give my son's leave to order me around?"

"Since you have a hole in your side and twelve stitches holding your guts inside your body." Sam responded dryly. My, but he had a mouth on him for a thirteen year-old.

Had Dean ever been this mouthy at his age? John didn't think so. It must just be Sam then.

Too tired and perhaps too bloodless to reprimand Sam for his lip, John just sighed and levered himself up and out of the kitchen. He trusted his boys to lock down the fort and finish the clean up. He'd trained them himself, after all.

He was halfway down the hall to his bedroom to sack-out when he realized he hadn't pocketed any of those nifty pain pills Sam had forced him to stock up on. Sighing tiredly, John pressed a hand to his wounded side and began hobbling back toward the kitchen.

Just as he was about to stumble into the light and snatch up the pill bottle before Sam could put it away the soft murmur of his boys' voices made him pause.

"Don't think I didn't see the blood on your back, Dean." Sam said in an assured tone that rang more like thirty than thirteen.

Dean sighed and shifted against the kitchen counter he was using to hold himself up. "It's nothing, Sammy. I can handle it."

Sam scoffed. "My ass. Sit down, Dean. And take off your shirt."

"Kinky." The tease in Dean's voice was audible and even though John couldn't see them he knew Dean was grinning like a cat.

Of course, at an emotional and pubescent time in his life, Sam's long suffering sigh and eye roll was ever so predictable. It made John want to grin himself.

"Not while you're bleeding all over the floor." Sam answered, shifting most of the supplies around until he had what he needed. "That's a little too kinky for me."

John frowned. Now, that… wasn't exactly how he'd expected his youngest to respond.

"What do you know about kinks, Sammy?" Dean asked, pulling his torn and bloody shirt over his head before collapsing to sit on the kitchen chair backward, his shredded back exposed.

John would like to know the answer to that as well.

"Everything I know about kinks I learned from you." Sam retorted, his voice slightly muffled as he leaned down and pressed his face into the back of Dean's head, nuzzling for a moment.

Dean let out a small contented sigh that pitched into a hiss as his back pulled. "Sammy."

"I see it." Sam answered pulling away, his face hardening as he took a closer look at his brother's back. "Damn. That thing dragged you and half the floor along with you."

"Is it that bad?" Dean shifted and tried to look over his shoulder, until Sam softly, but firmly turned his head to face forward.

"You look like you've got half a forest suck under your skin." He said as he snatched up the tweezers and started plucking.

John leaned against the wall outside the kitchen and frowned to himself. He didn't just… They didn't just… That couldn't have been… He slowly, stealthily peaked around the corner again to see Sam studiously plucking inch long splinter after inch long splinter out of his brother's skin.

It looked completely normal, but he could have sworn a minute ago that they'd been nuzzling each other… Flirting with each other…

Dean jerked as Sam pulled a particularly long shard of wood from beneath his skin. "Shit!" He cursed, pained breath hissing from his teeth, his head turned slightly to glance at the wood his brother had just yanked from him.

John watched as if in a trance as Sam dropped the splinter on the kitchen table with the others before turning back to Dean and dropping a small apologetic kiss at the top of his shoulder blade.

"Sorry." He murmured against his brother's heated skin. "Almost done."

Dean turned his head and looked into Sam's open hazel gaze for a moment, the air suddenly heated between them. "'S okay. I'm fine."

Sam continued on in silence, picking splinters and torn bits of t-shirt from his brother's ripped up back before he lifted a bottle of saline solution and began dousing the wounds with it. Dean held almost perfectly still for him the whole time, only jerking and cursing when his brother's ministrations cause sharper pricks of pain.

John on the other hand, was almost completely frozen where he leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen watching his sons; his keen, though glazed as they were, eyes catching every unconscious and conscious action that Sam and Dean made.

The tension in Dean's shoulders loosening as Sam placed a steadying hand on his unwounded shoulder; Sam leaving it there when its usefulness had waned. The quiet murmurs of reassurance, Sam would whisper into the skin behind Dean's ear every time he hissed. The heated, heavily laden glances Dean gave his brother whenever their eyes met.

It all added up to something, but John wasn't quite sure his pained, exhausted mind had figured it out yet. He just knew he wasn't going to like it.

"You don't need any stitches." Sam pronounced as he straightened from cleaning the wounds.

"Thank fuck for that." Dean grumbled shifting restlessly in the chair.

Sam snorted and stroked his fingers through Dean's hair at the back of his head. "Just let me wrap them and we can get finished cleaning up."

As he pulled his hand away, Dean reached up and snagged Sam's wrist pulling him around the chair until he was pressed against its back and Dean's chest. Dean placed a quick kiss on Sam's palm before letting it go and wrapping his arms around his brother's waist.

"Thank you." He murmured, his face turned upward as Sam stroked his fingers through Dean's hair once more.

Holding his brother's face in his hands, Sam quirked an amused smile before he leaned down and pressed a warm, caressing kiss to Dean's lips. Dean returned it with not a little bit of interest.

"'Welcome." He whispered against Dean's mouth as he looked into his half closed, bright green eyes. Then he pulled away and continued on with the task of patching his brother up.

John… John was really dizzy and feeling slightly faint.

Perhaps what he'd just seen was a dream. A nightmare! Yep, that's it… A hallucination? Shapeshifters?

Fuck.

He rubbed at his face tiredly and decided that he could to do without the goddamned pain pills. He was feeling mostly numb all over right then anyway, so he ignored the throb in his side and decided that he'd use the half empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Pastor Jim had given him for Christmas instead.

He just wasn't going to think about it. _Any_ of it.

Wasn't going to think about the thing with its painful-ass claws. Wasn't going to think about his wound and its incessant throbbing. Wasn't going to think about his boys and their touches, and whispers, and _kisses_…

God, he really was getting too old for this shit, John lamented as he stumbled back to his room and thankfully passed out into a dreamless sleep. He woke up the next morning with a hang over, an aching side, and the impression that ignorance can sometimes be bliss and being in denial wasn't such a bad thing especially if he couldn't quite remember what he was denying.

End.


End file.
